


god, save me

by bpdcerberus



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M, catholic proko, this is gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-21 18:22:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13746678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bpdcerberus/pseuds/bpdcerberus
Summary: Proko knew he was guilty, and he intended to repent his sins of last Friday. To do that, he should at least be able to get through the Rosary without drifting away from the large church he sat in, but couldn’t tear his mind’s eye away from Kavinsky’s thin, pale lips, his hallowed features and his regretful eyes that made him look sad any time he wasn’t happy or angry. Proko always thought of those lips, the way they formed words in a way that looked so delicate and yet sounded like knives. He thought of the way that they had-Proko had to dig the nails of one hand into the palm of his other to stop thinking about Kavinsky.





	god, save me

The hum of voices swelled around the young man. The beads between his trembling fingers were small and smooth. The buzz of the _Hail Mary_ filled his uneven ears, beating against his eardrums. The collection of people sounded like some sort of Holy broken record, saying the prayer over and over.

The youngest Prokopenko looked at the blue beads in his hands. He felt anxious. Watched, maybe. They did say God was always watching. Sometimes, Prokopenko wished God would skip over him for a while, just for a weekend.

With every repetition of the word ‘sinners’, Proko’s mind flashed back to that Friday night. He had had a cup of something strong in his hands instead of a rosary, a plain gold chain on instead of a tie, and intoxicated partygoers around him instead of Members of the Orthodox Catholic Church. He had been high and drunk himself, inhibitions lowered and soul already stained as much as Joseph Kavinsky’s white tank top had been.

“-and lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil.” The pastor’s voice cut through Prokopenko’s thoughts like a newly-sharpened knife.

He commanded himself to focus on the Holier man mere yards away from him. Proko knew he was guilty, and he intended to repent his sins of last Friday. To do that, he should at least be able to get through the Rosary without drifting away from the large church he sat in. After that, he would pray and beg the Father to forgive him, and after that, he would Confess to his sins and hope it was enough.

Yet, his mind still wandered.

He couldn’t tear his mind’s eye away from Kavinsky’s thin, pale lips, his hallowed features and his regretful eyes that made him look sad any time he wasn’t happy or angry. Proko always thought of those lips, the way they formed words in a way that looked so delicate and yet sounded like knives. He thought of the way that they had-

"O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell, lead all souls to Heaven, especially those who have most need of your mercy."

Proko had to dig the nails of one hand into the palm of his other to stop thinking about Kavinsky. Now, he opened his pale blue eyes, blinking up at the stained glass window ahead of him. He put his rosary back around his neck, running his fingers over the crucifix. Anxiety welled in him. The kneeler was put out in front of the pastor, looking worn and old from decades of prayer. A man got up, walking towards it and kneeling upon it. He stayed for a minute and a half before standing and being replaced by a boy who seemed to be a spitting image of the man. After that, a shorter, dark haired boy. After that, a wider-set boy with a head of blonde curls not dissimilar from Prokopenko’s own. After that boy got up to return to his pew, Prokopenko stood, walking up the aisle and kneeling. He crossed himself, taking a deep breath.

He meant to begin to pray, he did. But, as he kneel there trying to form words into a God-worthy apology, thoughts of Kavinsky swam back into his mind. Kavinsky’s lips. His hair. His cut cheekbones. The deep, mystical forest green of his irises.

 _‘Damnit._ ’ Proko cursed internally.

Prokopenko’s thoughts tried to proceed with his prayer.

_‘Dear Heavenly Father, forgive me for the-’_

His sneer. His maniacal laughter. His faint freckles.

_‘Forgive me for the sins I have committed and give-’_

Lips on skin. Teeth on lips. Skin on skin. The way he looked at Proko like one may look at a bouquet of flowers or maybe a knife-

_‘Give me the strength to Resist them in the f-’_

Kavinsky’s murmuring, his own stuttered breaths, hands there and there and-

_‘T-To Resist them in the future. God, Almighty, protect me-’_

Prokopenko had just very barely finished his small prayer when he was rushedly crossing himself, getting up and racing back to his seat in the pew. Shame knocked his heart with every beat. Every thump of his heart made his face redder. Prokopenko couldn’t stop thinking about Kavinsky. What they had done. What they planned on doing. What they _could_ do.

Prokopenko looked up towards the ceiling, closing his eyes.

_‘God, Save me.’_


End file.
